the trick to breaking porcelain is harder than it sounds

I’ve never been one to wear my soul on sleeve  
my face like a doll of porcelain  
even when I cry  
 
And I can’t make it stop
I can’t lift the fake from this smile  
though if you stare through my shades
or camera click just the right moment  
there might be some indication  
that these demons still haunt me  
 
I’m mannequin composure
with cracks in my eyes  
and the sweetest voice that rings
of I-want-to-be-bad pretentiousness
despite the historical artefacts
that refute the claims
that I was ever a good girl  
 
There’s money in my underwear
and a knife in my knee high boots  
a joint in my bra  
and someone sleeping under my bedroom  
 
The cops were here, today  
years ago  
throw a pillow over the bong on the couch  
someone was screaming domestic violence  
 
Two minute noodles  
and a cockroach clock  
anything is high class living  
when the streets have a corner  
waiting for my name  
to imprint itself upon the pavement  
and beneath the bushes  
a victim of circumstance  
a lover of hell  
 
I was always just a drama queen  
until I the day I screamed suicide so loudly  
the cops got called
 
There was a bridge with my name on it  
I didn’t jump
but I did get a free ride to the psych ward  
which didn’t have a bed  
for someone with my silent sobbing composure  
 
I’ve never been one to wear my soul on sleeve  
my face like a doll of porcelain  
even when I cry  
 
And I wonder why  
no one ever believes me  
when I scream that I’m hurting
 
© Indie Adams 2012